


paint it black •

by softpine



Series: camellia oneshots [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26391130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softpine/pseuds/softpine
Summary: “You won’t do it. You’re a coward. You’re just like him.”
Series: camellia oneshots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800172
Kudos: 21





	paint it black •

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings! No actual death or abuse is portrayed, but there's violence imagery and references to it. Skip this story if you need to; no hard feelings!

“Don’t you slam that door, you useless p— ”

Griffin kicks the door with enough force to rattle the foundation, sending bits of exposed concrete crumbling down on his head. He’s wound so tight he’s nearly vibrating out of his skin, his breath coming out in short, quick bursts. He slams his fist against the wood. Again. Again. His knuckles split open and blood spills out in streaks, but he can’t feel it. He can’t feel anything.

He only pulls away when the hinges start to weaken, screws rattling like chains. At least that’s one fight he can win.

He wipes his hands on his pants and cuts through the lawn.

It’s fitting, the way the sky hangs heavy with thick, black clouds. The air is wet in his lungs. There’s not a single sign of life around, not even the stray cat that sometimes screams at him and follows him around until he caves and buys her a can of tuna. He hasn’t seen her in a while. He hopes she’s okay.

There’s a cop car parked at the corner with all its windows rolled down and music booming from within. The officer in the front seat is scarfing down a sandwich like his life depends on it. When he lifts his head, Griffin recognizes him and rolls his eyes. Not this guy again.

He tries to shuffle past him unnoticed, but Officer Andrews sticks a hand through the window and waves him over. “Everything alright?” he asks.

“Screw you,” Griffin says, tugging his jacket tighter around him.

“Where are you going? You need a ride?”

“Not from you.”

Griffin sidesteps the car, continuing down the sidewalk. 

Griffin doesn’t know where Officer Andrews got the idea that they’re on good terms, maybe even  _ friendly _ , but he wishes he would just leave him alone — like he used to, before he got some warped idea of guilt stuck in his mind.  _ Poor Griffin, poor, poor Griffin. _

“Kid,” Andrews says. “Slow down.”

He walks faster.

“Kid!”

He turns a corner.

Andrews flicks on the siren and the flashing lights, blaring behind Griffin like a beacon. He clenches his fists as his vision goes blurry. Red, blue, red, blue, red. Red. Red. Red.

“You arrested my dad!” Griffin spits, thrusting his face in the window frame, so close he can smell Officer Andrews’ stupid ham sandwich. The words burn coming up his throat. “I don’t have to tell you shit! Stop following me, you _ creep! _ ”

Andrews’ sandwich drops into his lap. Griffin pulls his head out of the car and keeps walking. No one follows him.

He doesn’t even know where he’s going, that’s the real kicker. He doesn’t have any friends. Not anymore. He left his Boy Scout uniform at the house, so he can’t make any money. No one wants to buy candy from a kid in a beat up, too big leather jacket and patched jeans. They’d probably think he did something to it.

He turns left, away from the nice suburban houses with the white picket fences, towards the edge of the forest where he knows the high school kids throw parties. They always leave trash around — Sometimes wallets, sometimes whiskey. He likes lining the bottles up and smashing them with rocks, like his own personal bowling alley. It’s always the cheap stuff, anyway, so he doesn’t feel too bad.

But there’s no trash today. Not a single bottle.

Griffin sighs, feeling a droplet of rain hit his forehead. It’s been raining every day this week. His grandma used to love the rain. She always said it was God’s gift, a reprieve from sin. Forgiveness.

Sometimes he misses her so much it hurts, deep in his chest, right behind his rib cage. Worse than a gut punch. She saw the best in everyone — she saw the best in  _ him _ . She hung all his poems and paintings up on her fridge, kept a picture of him in her purse and, embarrassingly, showed everyone just how adorable her beloved grandson was.

He’ll never see her again. Not where she is. Not where he’s going.

Griffin sits in the mud for so long that he becomes part of it. His body sinks in and settles, roots tangling between his limbs and wrapping around his neck.

“You stupid idiot,” he hears, far away and distorted. A hazy figure comes into view, small and lanky and pale. “You stupid, stupid  _ idiot! _ Take the money, get a ride to the train station — Aunt Etta and Cousin Liz would let you stay with them, you know they would. You can still go, you can still… You can…”

The figure collapses, knees in the mud, sobbing. It’s him; he sees it now. It’s himself.

“You won’t,” the figure coughs, pressing his forehead to the ground. Sinking in. Blood trickles from his nose. “You won’t do it,” he laughs, blood staining his teeth cherry red. A wound opens on his cheek, splashing down his neck. “You’re a coward. You’re just like him.”

His visage fades, leaving only the slightest imprint in the sludge.

Griffin breathes in shakily, squeezes his fists open and shut. He’s not a coward. Cowards run. He is not a coward.

He picks himself up from the ground. He feels winded, like  _ he’s _ the one that just got the shit kicked out of him.

Officer Andrews is gone when Griffin makes it back to Rose Ave. He sighs in relief. He can’t trust himself not to do something stupid if he has to see that guy’s ugly face again.

The screen door rattles when he opens it. His dad is just inside, slathering caulk around the door frame. It’s messy, but it’ll keep the landlord away. Guilt strikes Griffin’s chest and his fingers twitch. “I can do that,” he says. His dad hands him the bucket wordlessly. “I… I didn’t mean to mess with the door. Sorry.”

“Shit happens,” his dad says, the barest hint of a smile peeking through his mustache. “Ah, you should’ve seen the hell I put my old man through. Looking at you… It’s like lookin’ in a funhouse mirror, kid.”

Griffin’s mouth tastes like acid.

He thinks of the lock box under his bed, the stacks of bills that could buy him a one-way ticket to Albany and then some.

But he is not a coward.

And he will not run.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry...  
> By the way, just to make it abundantly clear: It's never cowardly to escape an abusive situation. You deserve happiness and safety at any cost.


End file.
